


If I'm Butter

by makesomelove



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Background Relationships, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Canon, Richie is Friends with Guy Fieri Multiverse, Stabbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:42:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26589070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makesomelove/pseuds/makesomelove
Summary: "No, I would've remembered this," Richie says, folding his hand around the un-bandaged parts of Eddie's hand. The gold ring glints on his pinky.Eddie explains how he stabbed himself and Richie nearly dies. His laughter sounds like someone peeling out on fresh blacktop."Okay, yeah, hyuck it up, you goofy bitch," Eddie says."How many times is that? Four? The universe wants you to be penetrated, Eds," Richie says. "It cannot get enough of you."
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 95
Kudos: 976





	If I'm Butter

**Author's Note:**

> This one goes out to Natalie, my perfect living angel with whomst I can talk about Eddie getting stabbed 1000x, Richie being a freak, and everything in between. Thank you to Bridget for listening to me talk about this and helping me work this out endlessly and tirelessly, and thank you to Lea for reading it through and helping me make it the best it could possibly be. Title is taken from Hot Knife by Fiona Apple.

Eddie sits there propped up by nothing but the will of his friends. They leave him alone because they have to. As he bleeds unstoppably from the new, gigantic hole in his body, he has trouble remembering why they have to. He can't help but feel, as he has felt every day of the last 27 years of his life, that everyone is hanging out without him. Maybe that’s something he could’ve brought up to a therapist, he thinks, then he coughs and chokes a little bit on the blood in the back of his throat. 

When his friends find him again, Richie crouches down beside him and crushes their bodies together, brushing his fingertips on the side of Eddie’s head, the bandage on his cheek. His eyes feel like they're stuck wide open and he can’t relax into Richie’s grip. He hears someone say, "He's gone, Richie." 

"I'm," Eddie croaks out, blood in his mouth. He’s freezing cold and inexplicably hollow, like there’s nothing inside him but ice. 

Richie gasps through tears and Eddie is being hoisted up from the ground. Richie’s body against his is warm and alive and being held close against it is comforting. There's a bunch of crashing fuckshit going on around them and Eddie is jostled around violently in Richie's impossibly tight grip, but he can barely stay awake through it. How much is he going to be tossed around like a damn salad today? It’s like he got thrown from a rollercoaster ride by not wearing a seatbelt, now he’s on a fucking extremely realistic fucking 4D motion simulator. 

"Shh, shh, shh," Richie says into Eddie's ear. "You're okay. Right? You're okay." 

"It doesn't hurt," Eddie offers at the very least. He’s not sure he’s okay, but he’s not in pain. 

"You can't die, Eddie," Richie whispers frantically, still directly into Eddie's ear, his warm breath filling Eddie's ear canal like some sort of auditory CPR. "You can't die. I don't know what I would do. I would die too. Do you want that on your conscience?"

"What the fuck," Eddie says. 

"You can't die," Richie says, his words thick with it. "I love you. Eddie, I'm in love with you." 

"You know what," Eddie says, but then he can't say anymore, and he closes his eyes. 

~*~

Eddie wakes up in a post-op environment behind a drawn curtain. Richie is beside him in a chair, his head planted on Eddie's bed, though Eddie can't tell if he's asleep. He wants to say something but when he moves his tongue, he almost throws up so suddenly he has to physically choke it back down. Eddie's left hand is loosely sandwiched between both of Richie's, which are absolutely filthy with dirt and grime. He clearly hasn't changed his clothes or showered since escaping his death and carrying Eddie from his own at the same time. 

On Richie's pinky finger there's a rusty ring of blood, and Eddie has the nerve to feel worried about it when it's nothing compared to what Eddie has surely been through. Lower on his pinky, just below the dried blood, sits a familiar gold band. Richie is in love with him. Eddie closes his eyes again, not ready to interact with any of it, and goes back to sleep.

~*~

When he wakes up again, he's in a different room, this time with walls and a door, with a different Richie, this time with clean clothes and clean hands. One of his palms is upturned on the side of the bed with fingers extended, like he’s holding it out for someone to give him something. 

The only thing in them is Eddie’s fingers, which he flexes minutely. Richie closes his hands around Eddie’s like he’s catching a fly out of midair. 

"Eddie," Richie says as he bursts into tears. When he tries to pull his hand away, Eddie doesn't let him. 

"Richie," Eddie says. He points at a cup of water and Richie holds the little straw up to his lips. He's sweaty and hot, and he points at that too until Richie pulls the blanket down to his lap. It seems like helping Eddie in these small ways calms Richie down, and he stops crying. The ring on his pinky is gold, a simple band, and it's warm against Eddie's skin. Eddie is not wearing his wedding ring. He thinks the two are related. 

“Do you know what happened here or should I call a doctor?” Eddie says, pointing at the bandages on his body. They are wrapped tightly from his shoulder to just above his bellybutton, and he feels held together nicely. Not as nice as when Richie held him in his arms, warm and strong, but the hole in him is covered at least. 

"I told the doctor to make them huge," Richie says, cupping his free hand out in front of his chest. "Like really big, but still natural. Full, yet perky. I knew that's what you would’ve wanted." 

"Where are the others?" Eddie says, ignoring him. He knows they wouldn't give him big fake breasts while fixing a giant stab wound. He still pats himself on the chest to be extra sure there is nothing there that wasn't there before. 

"Who do you think gave you the tits?" Richie says sadly just as Bill and Bev walk in with cups of coffee. 

They all come in one by one, screaming and laughing, celebrating like he's fucking Frodo and he's done something for them to celebrate that he's not dead. All he did was get stabbed, on two separate occasions, and make everyone's time killing a clown that much harder. Mike explains how they did it, and Bill interrupts him every other sentence explaining how they got out, and Stan explains how Richie's arms were stuck frozen in front of him for an hour after they eventually pried Eddie out of them in the ER. 

"Ha, yeah," Richie says. "Rigor mortis set in I guess." 

Eventually everyone heads out, back to the inn to rest. Richie is allowed to stay past visiting hours. Eddie wonders how come. 

“Are you gonna eat these?” Richie says, picking up a cup of sliced peaches in their own juices from the tray next to Eddie’s bed. He’s already had a ginger ale and a piece of white bread and the thought of a slice of peach in its own juice slithering down his throat repulses him. 

“No, help yourself,” Eddie says. 

Richie sings under his breath and busies himself spreading an extra blanket out on two chairs to settle in. He's taken his hoodie off and hung it from the corner of Eddie's bed. His shoes are under the bed, too, and he's charmed some nurse into bringing him a pair of those socks with the grips on the bottom. He's made himself at home where Eddie is. 

“Richie,” Eddie says. 

"Eddie, my peach," Richie says, turning towards him. 

He means to say something like, you don’t have to stay, or you don’t have to balance your big dumb body on two chairs just to keep me company, or thank you for staying with me, or thank you for carrying me through unknown danger so hard that your body froze like that, or why are you here if visiting hours are over, or is that my wedding ring? 

"It's super weird that you're in love with me," Eddie blurts out. 

He doesn't say it in a particularly mean way, but he fears it comes out like that. It is weird. Richie has barely known him as an adult for a day. How can he be in love? It doesn't make any sense, socially speaking. Eddie guesses his relationship to Richie, and to the others as well, doesn't conform to society’s standards of normal. But being in love, that's got to be different. Eddie doesn't even know what Richie is basing his feelings on. 

Richie scratches the back of his head nervously and goes to shove his hands in his pockets, but he doesn’t have any. He settles for crossing his arms over his chest, and Eddie's eyes glance over the muscular shape of them, the obvious strength in them. He was held by those arms. Those arms froze in his shape because he was held there. 

"You heard that, huh?" Richie says. 

"Yeah, was I not supposed to?" Eddie says. "You said it directly into my ear." 

"Well, I thought you were dying, so," Richie says.

“So, what, you thought saying it would keep me alive?” Eddie says. 

“You’re alive, aren’t you?” Richie says. 

Eddie can’t argue with that. He is alive, and it’s because Richie saved him. Would Richie not have saved him like that, if he weren’t in love? 

“Did you only - because - “ Eddie says, unsure how to word it. 

“No, Jesus,” Richie says, understanding anyway. “I thought you were dead. And I couldn’t not say it.” 

Eddie cares about Richie, of course, he cares about him very much in a way that feels like he shouldn't be able to. Eddie doesn't know what to compare it to, because there’s nothing. But he can’t possibly be in love with Richie in the same way. 

“Why are you here?” Eddie asks. 

“I didn’t want you to be alone,” Richie says. 

"It's okay," Eddie says, trying to sound understanding and gentle. "It's just - I'm just - "

"No, I know," Richie says. “I’m super fucking embarrassed, Eddie, okay?” 

“Don’t be,” Eddie says, waving his hand like Richie only burped in front of him or something and didn’t confess his feelings as Eddie died in his arms. 

“I’m gonna go,” Richie says, jamming his thick hospital grippy socks into his shoes. “I’m just gonna go.” 

“Don’t,” Eddie says. Richie responds only by leaning in quick as a hummingbird and pressing his lips to Eddie’s temple before fleeing the room without looking back. 

~*~

When Richie said he was gonna go, Eddie didn’t realize he meant go all the way home without saying goodbye. Eddie is released from the hospital after two days with two holes punched through him like he’s two ring binder. Ben and Bev pick him up. In all the chaos nobody thought to bring him fresh clothing so he walks out with his own filthy pants and Richie’s left behind hoodie. It’s a little big for him, which is good for his bandages, and it smells nice and clean, like decent fabric softener. 

"Can the twins fit in there?" Bev teases him. "You're gonna have to go shopping for a whole new wardrobe. Your shape is completely different now." 

“Shut the hell up,” Eddie says, pulling Richie’s hoodie over himself tighter. 

The others are still in town, back at the inn but packing and getting ready to leave. Bev has packed his stuff for him and has it ready to go, and he only unpacks it and repacks it a little. 

“Where’s Richie?” Eddie says. He’s had a rotation of everyone in his hospital room for the last 48 hours, except Richie, who Eddie assumes is still stupidly embarrassed. 

Bev looks at Ben, who looks at Bill, who looks at Mike, who looks at Stan. Stan sighs. 

“He left last night,” Stan says, looking at Eddie with a strange sense of sympathy, like he’s telling Eddie his dog ran away. 

“He what?” Eddie says, his heart beating so painfully hard it could rip through his bandages. “He fucking what? What kind of, what kind of a person just leaves?” 

“I’m no expert, but sometimes people have to catch a flight,” Mike says. 

“You’ll see him again, Eds,” Bev says, rubbing a comforting hand down his arm. 

“We have the technology,” Stan says. 

“It’s been a long day, without you my friend, and I’ll tell you all about it when I see you again,” Mike says. 

“That’s beautiful,” Bill says, misty eyed. 

They all close in on him and hug, then they break apart and hug each other one by one. It already feels awful with Richie gone before the rest of them, and now the way they all have to be apart again. Eddie envisions them sleeping in a big room on top of each other like a newborn litter of puppies, just for a little while, just until they can open their eyes. 

"Can I go home with you?" Eddie says to Bev. Her and Ben are going to Long Island, which is close enough to where he lives to make him feel like he's going home and not running away. Unlike some people. He’s just making a few stops on the way. He’ll get there eventually. 

"Of course, Eds," Bev says. 

~*~

In the car, Eddie sits in the backseat and stares at his phone. He wants to reach out to Richie, to tell him he shouldn’t have left like that, or to tell him there’s really no need to be embarrassed, or to tell him to fuck off, which defeats the purpose of him reaching out in the first place. 

**Eddie:** They shaved my pubes man  
**Richie:** what???? who  
**Richie:** was it bill  
**Eddie:** The surgeons. They shaved my pubes  
**Richie:** it just makes sense  
**Eddie:** Why? They didn’t have to go anywhere near my crotch, but my pubes are gone  
**Richie:** maybe in case they had to do a graft  
**Eddie:** So now I have no pubes two extra holes and big jugs. I’m a monster  
**Richie:** JUGS????????????  
**Richie:** holes  
**Richie:** fuck i miss you already chesty eddie

Eddie never said thank you to Richie, for saving him, for not leaving him alone not even once. An abrupt need to hug Richie washes over him. He never got a chance to, before. The only time he had Richie’s arms around him was when he was bleeding out. His blood was in Richie’s eyes and mouth and on his hands and Eddie never got to hug him. 

**Eddie:** I miss you too  
**Eddie:** Don’t leave without saying goodbye again  
**Richie:** are we like ok  
**Eddie:** Yeah of course, why wouldn’t we be 

“What’re you smiling at?” Ben says, glancing in the rearview mirror at Eddie. 

“Can’t a guy be happy to be alive?” Eddie says. 

~*~

Eddie steps out of the car outside Ben's house and directly onto a rusty nail. It goes through his shoe and right into the ball of his foot. Unfortunately, it hurts like a motherfucker. 

"Motherfucking, shit!" Eddie yells. "Shit, fuck! God damn it!

"Sorry, sorry, sorry!" Ben says helplessly, tipping Eddie back into his seat in the car. "I didn't know that was there." 

"I didn't think you put a rusty nail on the ground for me to step on, Ben," Eddie says, but it's just his luck this week. 

Ben drives him to the nearest hospital. Eddie wishes, stupidly and impossibly and for no good reason, that Richie was here to hold him through it again. They get the nail out and clean the hole and bandage it up. Then, even though he knows it’s coming and wouldn't demand anything less, the doctor gives him more bad news. 

"You're going to need a tetanus shot," the doctor tells him. 

"Motherfuck," Eddie says as the needle pokes through his flesh and is jammed into his arm meat. 

~*~

Bev, whether she intends to or not, starts a new trend for winter. She gets divorced faster than anyone has before, as far as Eddie knows, and moves into Ben’s house. Eddie is inspired by what he sees and gives it a try himself, telling Myra he wants to separate and then also, briefly, moves into Ben’s house. Bill is the one who surprises them by following their example shortly after. He texts the group chat exactly 1 minute before Richie sends a link about the news. 

**Richie:** who’s next???  
**Richie:** STAN?????????  
**Stan:** No  
**Richie:** love isn’t real 

"Should we invite Bill out?" Eddie says. "To Divorce Island?" 

"I think Mike said he was heading out to Bill’s, actually," Bev says with a mouthful of pins. She's crouched down on the floor and moves Eddie's left foot forward slightly so she can get better access to the inside of his thigh. 

"Oh," Eddie says. "Are they like, you know." 

"Slamming their hot dogs together?" Bev asks. She sticks a pin through the fabric and Eddie braces against it, closing his eyes. Since they’ve been back she’s thought of some sort of idea for pants that keep your crotch extremely dry if you get dunked in, say, some sewer water, and is having Eddie do a fitting for a prototype. 

“Ah!” Eddie involuntarily pulls away from her as she wields another pin at him. 

"Would you cut that out?” Bev says, rolling her eyes. “I've been doing this for decades. I'm not going to poke you." 

“Sorry I’m a little sensitive about being fucking stabbed,” Eddie says. “Most people go their entire lives without being stabbed once, you know.”

“Nobody wants to stab you less than me,” Bev says. “I’m only going to stab you if you keep moving around.” 

“Did you say Bill and Mike are slamming their hot dogs?” Eddie says. “What is that?” 

“It’s like, I don’t know, what guys do,” Bev says. 

Eddie contemplates how that might feel. Probably not that great, depending on the power behind the slamming. Are both people slamming, or does one stay still and the other slams? An unstoppable force meets an immovable object. 

"Richie said he's in love with me," Eddie blurts, horrifyingly, like he’s trying to compete with Bill and Mike’s possible erotic slamming. 

"Speaking of slamming hot dogs,” Bev says. “Right leg forward, please.” 

“What do you mean?” Eddie says, moving his leg on auto-pilot now. 

“You guys were practically slobbering all over each other,” Bev says. “You were holding hands, at the restaurant, and you told him you should kiss.” 

“We were arm wrestling!” Eddie says. 

“Okay, well from where I was sitting, you were seconds away from a good old-fashioned hot dog slam,” Bev says. 

"Isn’t it weird, though?" Eddie asks. He forgets all about becoming a pin cushion and can think only of Richie, and also he’s hungry now and wants a hot dog. All beef. With relish.

"What do you mean?" Bev says. “Out of all the things that have happened to you, I feel like a gay guy being in love with you is the least weird." 

“Gay guy?” Eddie says. 

“Eds,” Bev says, staring up at him like he’s dumb as fuck. 

“Yeah, well, I just mean,” Eddie says, moving swiftly past the feeling that yet again everyone he knows is hanging out without him. “He’s only known me for, what, a couple days?”

“And as kids,” Bev points out. “Hello?” 

“That’s insane,” Eddie says. “That’s like, I don’t fucking know, running into someone from high school at the grocery store and they say they’re in love with you right there as you are. How is it possible?” 

“Eddie,” Bev says, and something about the tone of her voice makes Eddie feel irreversibly guilty. “You have to know it’s more than that. I love you, and you’re here with me. Do you think we barely know each other?” 

"No," Eddie says. "But that's different. I love you, too. And I love Richie. Of course I do. But what am I supposed to do? I'm not, I mean. I can't be. Nobody's ever been in love with me." 

"You were married," Bev suggests. 

"So were you," Eddie says. 

"You got me there,” Bev says. “But I mean, if anything, you’re the weird one. Just let a grown man be in love with you.” 

She pulls and tugs and adjusts something at Eddie’s waist, making the fabric tighter. 

“This is so humiliating,” Eddie says. 

"What? Love?” Bev says. 

"No, the fact that I can fit into these women's pants," Eddie says. 

"Oh, so being petite and having a snatched waist is humiliating now?" Bev says. "Grow up. They're pants." 

Bev has only one pin left in her mouth. She takes it out and goes to stick it into the fabric. Instead she misses completely and jabs it straight into the meat of Eddie's inner thigh. 

Bev’s head snaps up and she has the audacity to laugh. 

“Beverly, fuck!” Eddie snaps. “I just fucking told you I’m sensitive about being fucking stabbed!” 

"Oh, hold on," Bev says, stifling her huge grin. "If you get blood on these we have to start over."

"If you think I'm fucking standing here being your fucking voodoo doll," Eddie says. He hisses as she pulls the needle out and pins it in the right spot. 

~*~

Richie texts Eddie a gif of himself. It’s one of a handful available when you search ‘richie tozier’ and he takes full advantage of having them on hand. Their group chat at one point is everyone chatting and Richie responding with the same gifs of his own face to everything. The one he sends Eddie now is actually pretty useful - it’s Richie in one of his old comedy specials, a blue background and Richie from the knees up, mic in hand and his other hand held up to his crotch like a phone with the caption “DING DONG?” 

It means he wants Eddie to call him, so he does. 

“Hey, Chesty, how are the twins?” Richie says when he picks up. 

“You know what, I think I have less tit now than I did before, due to the fact that I was fucking impaled,” Eddie says. 

“Jesus, Eddie, I know you were impaled,” Richie says. “I was there.” 

“I know,” Eddie says, as calming as he can without sounding annoyed. “It’s just a joke. Haven’t you ever heard of yes and?” 

“Yes, and you can shut the fuck up,” Richie says. 

Sometimes, Eddie has observed in the many phone conversations they’ve had since they last saw each other, Richie can be weirdly sensitive about Eddie almost dying. He’s learning a lot about Richie now that he can. Richie likes to text him 19 times in a row in the middle of the night and make Eddie come up with a response to each one before he’ll move on with his life. Richie does not eat breakfast or dinner, but rather one huge meal at 4pm. When they FaceTime, Richie points the camera at his feet, citing the fact that his head is ugly, until Eddie has to convince him that Richie’s face is more handsome than his feet are. 

The known truth of Richie being in love with him is almost always at the forefront of Eddie’s mind when they talk. The sound of Richie’s voice in his ear is all the reminder he needs. Richie’s arms gripping him for dear life, his breath warm and urgent as he tries to hold Eddie together. _Eddie, I’m in love with you._ Eddie wants to ask if it’s still true, or if the feelings have ebbed away now that Eddie is no longer on the brink of death. He wants to know if it’s still true even though now Richie knows him better. 

“I just wanted to wish you good luck,” Richie says. 

“Thanks,” Eddie says. “I’m about to head in now.” 

“You’re gonna make that divorce your bitch,” Richie says. “Love you, bye.” 

“Bye, you too,” Eddie says. 

~*~

Eddie sits across from Myra and her lawyer at the most comically wide table he's ever seen. He wonders if it's this wide to keep people from lunging at each other while arguing about which silverware or rabbit statue or child they think their ex shouldn't be able to keep. He will not be launching himself across anywhere to do anything to Myra today, and as far as he knows, she will also be refraining from doing a launch. This is a done deal and they just need to sign a few more papers and he will be free. 

Right after they hung up earlier, Richie sent him a picture of Nicole Kidman facing the sun with her arms spread wide and said, "this is u". At the time Eddie didn't understand what that was supposed to mean, but now he thinks it positively will be him by the time he’s through here. 

Eddie waits for Myra's lawyer to stop droning about something. He fiddles with a pen to keep himself from dying of boredom, poking it between his spread fingers on top of a piece of paper. When the lawyer reads something off about Myra getting the Escalade, Eddie's head snaps up sharply in surprise. The pen slips and stabs through his hand, his bones shifting to let it in. 

"Fffff,” Eddie hisses. “Damn it.” 

The pen doesn't go all the way through to the other side, but it does need to be yanked out. Blood spurts and dribbles down his hand and his wrist, staining the cuff of his shirt. There's a horrifying black ink ring around the wound. His lawyer finds someone to find a first aid kit, and as his hand is getting wrapped up, Myra's lawyer continues. 

"So," Myra says at the same time her lawyer says, "And?" 

His hand throbs, and his healed chest wound throbs a little too, which means it must be about to rain. So much for facing the sun with his arms spread. She can have the car. He can find a new one that hasn't been fucking totaled before. 

“And I want your ring back,” Myra says. “You’re not going to be needing it.” 

“I lost it,” Eddie lies. “You can do the same to yours.” 

They sign the papers and it rains a little bit. By the time he gets out of the stuffy office the clouds have lifted and he sends Richie a picture of himself squinting, his face bathed in sunlight. 

~*~ 

Richie has to be in the city for a few months for what he calls business purposes and chooses to stay an entire hour away from Eddie’s new apartment by crashing at Ben's. When he insists on picking Richie up at the airport, Eddie tries not to emit toxic levels of incandescent jealousy about that choice. Richie gets in the car and Eddie has to mentally strong-arm himself into driving to Ben's house and not his own place. 

"What happened here?" Richie says, cradling the fingertips of Eddie's bandaged hand in his palm, like he's very carefully holding a spider. 

"I thought I told you," Eddie says. 

"No, I would've remembered this," Richie says, folding his hand around the un-bandaged parts of Eddie's hand. The gold ring glints on his pinky. 

Eddie explains how he stabbed himself and Richie nearly dies. His laughter sounds like someone peeling out on fresh blacktop. 

"Okay, yeah, hyuck it up, you goofy bitch," Eddie says. 

"How many times is that? Four? The universe wants you to be penetrated, Eds," Richie says. "It cannot get enough of you." 

"Don't talk to me about penetration," Eddie says. 

Richie’s two front teeth dig into his lower lip as he tries to stop smiling. The more Eddie learns about Richie, as he is now superimposed over how he was as a kid, the more he likes him. A sort of basic attraction materializes along with that. Eddie can look at Richie and say he thinks his two front teeth are cute, or that his big broad chest is sexy, or that whoever gave him his last haircut did a good job because it frames the back of his neck in an appealing way. He could say these things to Richie as a friend, because he likes him, and he thinks his friends are all very hot and beautiful. 

Richie hasn’t really said much about his feelings for Eddie, and understandably so. The last time he did, Eddie humiliated him for having them. He wonders if Richie’s feelings have tapered off. It could’ve just been a heat of the moment situation - Richie did say he thought Eddie was dying and he had to say something. Maybe it’s like a boiling point, a thermometer reaching its highest point, and now that they’re no longer in danger, Richie’s feelings are a normal temperature. 

Eddie misses him and he’s with him, right next to him. He hasn’t seen Richie in person since he left Eddie alone, the ghost of a kiss at Eddie’s temple as he rushed out to escape. Now Richie sinks comfortably into the seat of Eddie’s little four-door sedan, his long legs folded up even with the seat pushed back as far as it will go. Eddie doesn’t sense any embarrassment, but the way Richie smiles at Eddie and looks at him from the corner of his eyes makes him seem like he’s a little shy. 

There’s a little fireplace in his new apartment. He could let Richie sleep in his bedroom while Eddie curls up on the floor like a dog, on top of a rug in front of the glowing embers every night, waiting for Richie to wake up in the morning and nudge him with his foot. Somehow this sounds preferable to Richie being so close yet not close enough. 

"Did you know Ben's house has like 6 bedrooms," Richie says, breaking Eddie out of his deranged idea of acceptable sleeping arrangements. "And 3.5 baths. He has one of those like weird Belgian bathrooms that's only a toilet."

"First of all, you know I know that," Eddie says. "I’ve stayed there. Second of all, the toilet room is weird. There’s no window.” 

"You could honestly stay there again," Richie says conversationally. 

"I have an apartment," Eddie says. 

"Just for a couple weeks," Richie says. "It's Christmas!" 

"It's December 2nd," Eddie says. 

"It's Christmas," Richie says. “Mikey is staying too! Don’t you love your Mikey?” 

“Mikey,” Eddie says wistfully, the thin elastic of his resistance to Richie’s invitation wearing thinner. 

"There's no way you're worried about imposing," Richie says. "You know Ben is like one of those open-door policy moms. He is absolutely making a charcuterie board for us right now.” 

Eddie drops Richie off. He gets out of the car to say hello to Ben and to Bev. 

"Ooh, pickles!" Richie says when he barrels through Ben's door and sees the charcuterie board on the coffee table in the living room. 

Eddie drives to his apartment and packs a bag for two weeks and drives back. 

~*~

After killing the second bottle of artisanal homemade fruit wine made specially in Bill's garage by Bill and Mike, Eddie works up the courage to ask.

"So are you guys like," Eddie says. "You know." 

Richie is more courageous about it. He makes two peace signs with his hands and slams them together in a crude and impossible gesture. 

"What is that? What is that?" Eddie shrieks. 

"It's sex between two men," Bev says. She lifts her eyebrows. “Thinking of trying it?” 

"No, we don’t do that,” Mike says, his eyes unfocused as he sips on his glass. 

“Okay, depending on what word you emphasize there, you could get like an endless combination of meanings,” Richie says. 

“Five meanings,” Eddie says. 

“NO, we don’t do that,” Richie counts off on his hand. “No, WE don’t do that. No, we DON’T do that. No, we don’t DO that. Or the most incriminating of all. Beverly?” 

“No, we don’t do THAT,” Bev gasps. “Mike!” 

Mike only smirks and takes another sip. With no inflection at all in his voice, he says, “No, we don’t do that.” 

After the third bottle is gone, Bev lays underneath the tree and starts shaking presents. She lifts her head up too fast and bumps the bottom branch, making the entire thing sway and shake. They all hold perfectly still until it stops moving. 

"Fuck," Richie says. 

Ben's tree is gigantic - Eddie thinks it's like three Richies tall and four Richies wide - and it's decorated immaculately in color coordinated glass bulbs and silk ribbon and warm white lights throughout. It's very beautiful and impersonal. Richie has already broken two bulbs and Bev has broken one. If they break anymore Ben is going to find out and he’ll be very disappointed in them. 

"I want my nose pierced," Mike says, sliding from the couch to the floor to help extract Bev out from underneath the tree. “Wouldn’t it look cute as hell?” 

"Where do you want your nose pierced?" Richie asks. 

"In the nose," Bev says. 

“It would look cute as hell, Mikey,” Eddie says. 

Richie is also on the floor. Eddie is the only one not on the floor now. He can't help but feel like everyone is hanging out without him, but also he doesn't want to sit on the floor. He wants to sit in Ben's armchair with his legs dangling over the side and have Richie tug at his big toe once in a while. What he really wants is for Richie to hold him in his big strong arms, or to cradle Eddie’s head in his big strong hand until Eddie forgets how to hold his own head up. 

Richie tugs at his big toe now and Eddie kicks out and grazes a bulb on the tree. The other bulbs chime as they clink together and they all grimace. 

"Why don't we move?" Eddie says, afraid of angering the tree any further. 

"I have a gun," Bev says. 

"Okay, it's not that serious," Eddie says. "We don't have to like. Are you going to shoot the tree?" 

"Fuck that tree," Richie says. "I was here first." 

"I mean a piercing gun," Bev says.

"Pour moi?" Mike says. 

"Pour vous," Bev says. 

Before he knows it, Eddie is standing in the doorway of one of Ben's 3.5 bathrooms, but not the windowless toilet room. He stares as Bev alcohol swabs Mike's nose with the unbearable sweetness of a drunk person about to do something crazy. 

“What will Bill say?” Eddie says. 

“Who gives a fuck?” Bev says at the same time Mike says, “Horny.” 

Bev jams one end of the piercing gun into Mike’s nose and counts down from three. She pulls the trigger and a loud _clack!_ echoes off the walls. 

Mike barely reacts, then tears form in his eyes and pitifully roll down his cheeks. Richie stands solemnly beside him and dabs the tears away. He hands Bev the little stud and she fastens it into the hole she just created. It’s like Richie is a surgical assistant and Eddie can’t help but smile at them. 

“It’s so fucking cute!” Bev says, her eyes growing mad. “Who’s next? Who’s fucking next?” 

"Uh, I'll go after Eddie," Richie says. “C’mere, Eds.” 

"Oh, no, no," Eddie says. "I'm not getting a hole put in my head by a drunk woman." 

"Misogyny," Bev says. 

"What about women's contributions to society?" Mike says. 

"What about my ear?" Richie says. "Wouldn't that look sexy?"

"You're old," Eddie says. "Mid-life crisis much?" 

"Hey," Mike says defensively. 

"Harrison Ford has his ear pierced and he's older than me," Richie says. "And a young Rob Lowe?" 

"You think you're old Harrison Ford and a young Rob Lowe?" Eddie says. 

"I can see how you would think that," Bev says. 

"I don't want to do it alone," Richie says. "Eddie. Come on. Eddie. Eddie baby. It will look so sexy. Don't you want to look sexy?" 

Eddie is kind of in the mood to look sexy. He wants to impress Richie in a way he hasn't since they were kids. He's also middle-aged, divorced, and drunk. 

Bev runs to the kitchen with the speed of someone who shouldn’t be piercing people and comes back with a cup full of ice cubes. Eddie waffles in the middle of the bathroom, pacing one step back and forth until he's just spinning in a small circle like a lunatic. 

"You're making me dizzy," Richie says. “Would you just - “

Tugging on Eddie’s arm, Richie pushes Eddie around until his back is flush against Richie’s front. Richie leans against the bathroom counter and spreads his legs a little, making room for Eddie to get as close as possible. He reaches into the cup of ice and holds an ice cube to Eddie's earlobe to numb it. Eddie is overcome with the feeling of not being held since he was dying, since Richie thought he was dying and couldn’t let go of him. He boldly takes Richie’s other hand and puts it in the middle of his chest, practically begging for Richie to cleave to him. 

Richie takes the hint. He gets his arm around Eddie as far as he can and hangs on. The ice melts in Richie’s hand against his ear and drips into his hair. Richie’s breath against it is unbearably hot. 

Richie was in love with him then. He hasn't said it again. Is Richie still in love with him? He wants to know, more than anything. But it's selfish to ask, when Eddie won't offer anything in return. He realizes Richie can probably feel his heart pounding through his ribcage and hopes he thinks it’s only because he’s about to let a drunk Bev pierce his 40 year old ear. 

"Richie," Eddie says. He puts his hand over Richie’s, brushing his fingertips over the ring there. He really should ask about that. He doesn’t want to, yet. For some reason he likes that Richie is wearing it, keeping it safe. It looks nice on his big hand, a pretty little decoration. 

"Hmm?" Richie says, squeezing him a little tighter. 

"I'm gonna bite through my tongue," Eddie says.

“Here,” Richie says. Richie’s ice cold finger grazes Eddie’s chin, then trails upwards, tracing Eddie’s lower lip. Eddie opens his mouth, holding his tongue back on purpose for fear that he’ll do something he shouldn’t. Richie puts his finger just past Eddie’s lips, sideways, like a pencil to chew on. Eddie sinks his teeth in softly, not biting yet, but his skin burning at the idea that he’s allowed to. 

Bev looks at them strangely, brushing her hair back away from her neck and fanning herself. She presses the gun to Eddie's ear lobe and Eddie bites down, hard enough to leave marks on Richie’s skin. The piercing feels like nothing at first, then all at once it's like a hundred bees have stung him all in the same spot. 

“Ah, ah!” Eddie cries out around Richie’s finger. 

“Does it feel that good, Eds?” Richie says, his voice going all the way through his chest into Eddie’s back. 

Eddie spits out the finger in his mouth and shouts, "Fuck, fuck, is it supposed to feel like this? Fuck!" 

“It stings a little,” Mike says. “But it looks cute as hell!” 

“The stud, doctor,” Richie says, holding his hand out. Bev places it in his palm and Richie puts the earring in Eddie’s ear for him, trying to be as gentle as possible while Eddie’s ear feels like it’s on fucking fire. 

"Okay, now you," Eddie says, turning in Richie’s arms until they’re face to face. He pins Richie to the bathroom counter, his arms on either side of him, while Richie’s arm stays circled around Eddie’s middle, his hand sprawling the entire expanse of Eddie’s lower back. Their hips are flush. Eddie has never his dick this close to another man’s dick before. Their hot dogs could slam, if they were naked. He doesn’t mind it. 

Richie glances frantically from Eddie’s eyes to Eddie’s ear to Eddie’s mouth and back. His forehead is shiny with sweat and his cheeks are flushed. He must be drunker than Eddie because his eyes go unfocused. 

"On second thought, no way am I doing this," Richie says. He pushes Eddie backwards a little bit, finally releasing him from his grip, and adjusts his slipping glasses with his middle finger. 

"Richie," Eddie says, rage throbbing through the elective stabbing he just got. "I'm going. To fucking. End your life." 

He grabs the gun out of Bev's hand and points it at Richie's chest. 

"What're you gonna do, pierce the air I'm breathing?" Richie says. “That thing doesn’t shoot this far.” 

Eddie points the gun lower at Richie's crotch and moves closer. 

"No!" Richie shrieks and makes a run for it.

~*~

Eddie nearly takes the earring out a hundred times. He can’t sleep normally, the earring post digging into the skin behind his ear when he tries to lay on the pierced side, and he’s really nervous about it becoming infected. Plus he’s fucking old and stupid and doesn’t know what he was even thinking, he can’t have an earring, he’s not Harrison Ford or young Rob Lowe or someone who does something wild to impress someone who’s in love with him, and for whom he cares about deeply and differently from anyone else. 

“Why don’t you take it out?” Ben asks on Christmas Eve, as he takes yet another batch of sugar cookies out of the oven. 

Richie is in the middle of helping Mike mix up a vat of icing out of powdered sugar and lemon juice. Eddie worries at his earring, twisting it around a little bit, and Richie’s focus snaps directly to him from across the kitchen. His lips part and his tongue practically lolls out of his mouth, unfurling cartoonishly across the table, steam shooting out of his ears as he slaps his knee. That’s how Eddie sees it, anyway. 

“I think I’m learning to like it,” Eddie says, his neck feeling hot under his collar. Then, louder, his voice carrying through the kitchen and beyond, “I just wish Richie hadn’t fucking pussied out big time like an asshole.” 

“Hey,” Richie says defensively. “Just because I’m a pussy and an asshole doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings. I’m an actress. I have all of them.” 

He gestures with a bottle of food coloring and squirts green all over the floor. 

“Oh, shit,” Richie says. 

“Okay, calm down, Goldie Hawn,” Mike says. 

“It suits you,” Ben says. “Free bitch Eddie.” 

“I am a free bitch,” Eddie says. 

~*~

Richie wakes Eddie up by jumping on his bed and shouting, "Santa came! Santa came!" 

"No,” Eddie says, scrunching his face against the horrible sensation of being awake. 

"In my mouth," Richie says. He’s got on nothing but a black t-shirt and a pair of surprisingly tasteful red and green plaid boxers. The muscles in his thighs as he kneels on the bed are hypnotizing. He thinks Richie must know how to lift with his legs and not his back, and that’s how he was able to carry Eddie out of untold danger. 

“Are you fucking shredded?” Eddie says, slapping his hand down on Richie’s thigh. Richie jumps at the contact. “Are you fucking ripped?” 

“I don’t think so,” Richie says. 

“You carried me out of the cistern without throwing your back out,” Eddie says. “You’re fucking buff, man.” 

“Yawn, are we still talking about that?” Richie says. “Okay, so I saved your life with my big strong arms. What have I done for you lately?” 

The room Eddie’s in faces east and has a gorgeous view of the sunrise every morning, and it also has a gorgeous pair of blackout curtains. The room is lit only by the light filtering in through the door Richie left open. Eddie pushes down an unmapped disappointment. Richie squirms under the blanket and settles down next to Eddie, close enough to be on the same pillow. Eddie slides his bare leg along Richie’s shredded, muscular leg, the grain of the hair on their calves rubbing electric against each other. 

"Merry Christmas, Eddie," Richie says, quiet in the small space between them. "I was going to give you, you know, a partridge, some turtle doves, a bunch of hens. Just a fuckton of birds."

"I wouldn't like that," Eddie says. "The responsibility. And I don’t have the space.” 

"I know that about you," Richie says. "I did buy Stan a chicken."

"Is it here?” Eddie asks, looking around for a live chicken.

“No, no, I have to swing by on my way and get it,” Richie says. 

“What time’s your flight?” Eddie says, though he already knows, because he’s been dreading it. 

“Not for a few hours,” Richie says, knowing that Eddie already knows. 

“And you don’t need a ride?” Eddie asks, not for the first time. 

“Nah,” Richie says, waving his hand and letting it hang there. “I don’t want you guys to have to drive me on Christmas. Ben’s loaning me one of his cars. Isn’t it nice to have friends who will loan you a car? I didn’t know anyone who would do anything for me, before. I mean before we re-met. Well, maybe except - “ 

“It is nice,” Eddie says, thinking about how he didn’t have anyone who would’ve saved his life before they re-met. 

The ring on Richie’s pinky shines dully in the low light of the room. Eddie moves in slow motion, snatching Richie’s hand out of the air like he’s catching a lightning bug. 

“It’s mine, right?” Eddie says, twisting the ring on Richie’s finger, not trying to take it off. 

Richie swallows loudly, but not looking away from Eddie’s face. 

“I meant to, uh,” Richie says. “Actually, no, I didn’t mean to do anything. I was going to keep it until you asked for it back.” 

“I’m not,” Eddie says. He twines their fingers together, the metal warm between them. 

“They gave it to me, at the hospital,” Richie says, somehow even quieter. His eyes shutter like he’s going into his memory and reliving it. “They took it off, before surgery or something, I don’t know. And they gave it to me to hold onto.” 

“There was blood on it,” Eddie says, remembering waking up with Richie exhausted and filthy next to him, waiting for Eddie to come back. 

“It was yours,” Richie says, pushing the words out of his throat with some difficulty. He swipes at his face with his free hand. 

“You can still hold onto it, if you want,” Eddie whispers. 

“Oh,” Richie says, and he laughs like he’s suddenly got a lot of snot in his nose. He squeezes Eddie’s hand so hard the bones shift. He’s lucky it’s not the hand that was stabbed with a pen.

"Why do you wear it on your pinky?" Eddie says. “You look like you’re in the mob.” 

"That’s the only finger it would fit on,” Richie says. “Not all of us are blessed with dainty little delicate baby hands, Eddie, my sugar plum.” 

Eddie thinks about how much bigger Richie's fingers are than his, whole entire ring sizes bigger, hands that can cradle Eddie’s head and envelop Eddie’s hands completely, until there’s only Richie’s hands left. He wants to go back to sleep to process it. 

“I do have little hands,” Eddie says sadly. "Now where's my real present?" 

"Uhhh," Richie says. 

~*~ 

Richie leaves him to go to Atlanta to celebrate the new year. Eddie doesn't know why they aren't all together right this second, even though he understands the nightmare of aligning several adults' schedules to be exactly the same at the same time. Still, it's a holiday, and aren't they all off anyway? What gives? They’re all so far apart. 

"Happy New Year, Eddie," Richie says when he picks up Eddie’s FaceTime call. Eddie has a perfect view of his feet standing on the floor. 

“Show face,” Eddie whines because he’s personally two bottles of champagne deep and he doesn’t feel shame anymore. “Handsome face please.” 

Richie flips the camera, then flips it again, then flips it one final time until it’s settled on his handsome face. 

"I want to kiss your head clean off your body,” Richie says, which means he’s also had some champagne. 

"Don't do that," Eddie says, but he’s not precisely sure what that he’s referring to. Don’t threaten to decapitate him? Don’t tell him he wants to kiss him? 

"You look like you're frowning, but you're smiling," Richie says through a knowing grin. "I can tell. Your eyes smize." 

"Hey, what gives?" Eddie says, continuing his earlier thoughts while forgetting to actually say them out loud. "You should be here." 

"Me?" Richie says, poking himself in the chest. 

"And Stan, and Patty, and Mike, and Bill," Eddie says. He's fucking wasted off champagne and he belches loudly, wishing he could blow it into Richie's face. 

"And Toto," Richie says. 

"Who the fuck is Toto?" Eddie says. He lowers his voice and shuts himself in the bathroom. "Is that - is that your boyfriend?" 

"No, you fucking dumb bitch," Richie says. "It's the dog from that movie. She's listing all these people, like you. And Mike is there." 

“I’ve never seen that movie,” Eddie says suspiciously. 

“You’d like it,” Richie says. “It’s about a bunch of freaks being friends with each other.” 

“Oh my God, you’re right,” Eddie says. He gets choked up at just the thought of people being friends, and they’re freaks. "I feel like I'm divorced.” 

"You are divorced," Richie says. "Isn't it wild how we're all divorced? I mean the ones who were married. You're divorced. Bev is divorced. And Bill? Divorced as fuck." 

"We're not divorced you turnip truck driving ass," Stan says from behind Richie's shoulder. Richie laughs, angling the camera from below as he goes to another room, giving Eddie a clear view straight up his nostrils. One of them is shaped like an almond and the other one is shaped like a kidney bean. It makes Eddie's heart kick. 

"I miss you," Eddie says.

"That's something people say when they don't do anything about it," Richie says intelligently, like Eddie is supposed to be able to do something. "Who did you kiss at midnight, hm? When the ball dropped?" 

"Nobody," Eddie says. "I would kiss you at midnight. I would've. It's past midnight now." 

"Okay, well," Richie says, clearing his throat. "You're drunk. And I kissed Patty." 

"Richie!" Eddie giggles, covering his mouth. "She's married. To Stan!" 

There's a knock on the bathroom door. There are 3.5 bathrooms in Ben's house so it must be an emergency. Eddie opens the door to Mike, who immediately blows a party blower in his face and stabs him in the eye with it. The party paper hits his eye like a big pizza pie. At least it doesn't penetrate anything this time. Mike gasps an apology and runs to wet a cold cloth to press to his sore eyelid. 

"Fucking, shit, fuck!" Eddie says. "Damn hell ass shit! Motherfucking son of a shit bitch!" 

"Any other words to run by the censor?" Richie says, grinning at him like a lunatic while Eddie tries to keep his eyeball from falling out. "What about the C-word?" 

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," Mike says, handing him the damp wash cloth. "I didn't think it would go directly into your eye?" 

Eddie waves him off. It isn't his fault. It seems like maybe he's just a magnet, like things just need to stab his body for the world to keep turning. 

"How many times?" Eddie moans, the cold cloth helping him, and Richie over the phone somehow helping him even more, even though he should be here. He should fucking be here. "How many fucking times?" 

"Happy New Year, Eddie," Richie says again. "I love you." 

"You do?" Eddie says. 

"Yeah, I do," Richie says. "It never went away. Should I see a doctor?" 

"No," Eddie says. "But. No." 

"Gotta go, Stan is dancing with his chicken," Richie says and he ends the call before Eddie can say anything else. 

~*~

On Valentine's Day, Eddie receives a delivery of roses to his apartment, where he lives. There isn't a card with the flowers, which is more telling than if Richie had sent a card. 

Richie should be worried about making sure he has everything ready to go back home. His business in the city is done, and he’s leaving, and he will no longer be 1 hour or less away from Eddie. He shouldn’t be sending Eddie roses for Valentine’s Day. 

**Eddie:** Richie do you have some sort of problem  
**Richie:** yes, why do u ask  
**Eddie:** Did you send me roses? On Valentine's Day  
**Richie:** uhhhhhhhhh  
**Eddie:** You know this is text you don't have to send me a text that says uhhhhh you can just think without telling me you don't have to show your work

Richie sends him a voicenote of himself saying, "uhhhhhhhhhh." 

**Richie:** actually i didn't send them. must be your secret admirer  
**Eddie:** You're my only secret admirer and it's not a secret  
**Richie:** how did you find out 

Eddie can’t help but feel loved. He’s never gotten flowers, let alone for a stupid occasion. He puts his entire face into the bouquet and takes a big sniff. It smells floral and a little bit like a fridge. When he pulls back, blood drips into his eye from the stinging cut above his eyebrow. A thorn got him but good. 

"Fucking," Eddie says, reaching for a paper towel. “God fucking damn it.” 

~*~

Richie has to go but this time Eddie makes sure he says goodbye. He stands outside Ben’s idling car in the cold. It’s just about spring and it keeps raining on and off, blowing old slippery leaves into the yard under Eddie’s shoes. The muscles under the scar on his chest ache in the damp weather, and something deeper than muscle aches even worse at the thought of letting Richie leave. Eddie shoves his hands in his pockets while Richie goes in and comes back out of the house just as nervously, like he doesn’t want to go but he doesn’t know how to stay.

“Don’t be a stranger,” Ben says to Richie, hugging him so hard Richie’s eyes pop out. “You got your key?” 

“Yes, daddy,” Richie says. 

When it’s Eddie’s turn, the hug he gives Richie is almost brutal. It’s like he’s trying to hold Richie together with nothing but his arms. Richie just stands there and lets him for a minute, then brings his arms up to circle around Eddie’s waist. Eddie is pretty sure his entire body is a throbbing heart and Richie will be able to feel how hard it’s beating. Bev rolls the window down on the passenger side. 

“Hey, sorry, we have to rock ‘n’ roll,” she says, and the reality of it makes them pull away from each other. 

“Is this mine?” Richie asks, zipping Eddie’s hoodie up to his chin. “It’s big on you.” 

“Yeah, you left it at the hospital,” Eddie says. “It’s mine now.” 

“It’s yours,” Richie says. He leans in one more time, his lips soft on Eddie’s temple. “I’ll see you later.” 

“Call me when you get there,” Eddie says. “Okay?” 

“The only thing I have to look forward to,” Richie says, and he gets in the car and Bev drives him away. 

Eddie should get going, too. Instead he asks Ben if there’s anything he can do, and he must seem desperate enough for something to do that Ben says he needs to do some laundry. Eddie goes to Richie’s bedroom in Ben’s house, one of the 6 he’s been living in, just an hour or less away from Eddie. The bed is unmade and messy. Eddie intends to strip it, put everything in the washing machine. He’ll wait until it’s all dry, too, and make the bed, and it’ll be like Richie never stayed there at all. 

Instead, he drops to the bed and pulls the blanket all the way over his head. 

“I love you,” Eddie whispers into the pillow where Richie’s ear would’ve been. “I’m in love with you.” 

~*~

After Richie’s guest bedding is washed and dried, Eddie finds Ben outside fishing at the little man-made pond just a little walk away from his house. Eddie doesn’t understand the appeal of fishing - from the top you have to poke a sharp object through a worm, which turns Eddie’s stomach now more than ever before. The entire thing is just a series of poking some creature. Ben lets them go if he catches them, but it’s all too gruesome an activity Eddie to participate in. 

Eddie stands next to Ben and asks, “Can I ask you something?” 

“Of course,” Ben says. 

“Are you in love with Bev?” Eddie asks. 

“I mean, a little bit, yeah,” Ben says right away, with no embarrassment. 

“What’re you guys doing here?” Eddie asks. “Are you like, I don’t know. Together?” 

“She lives here,” Ben says. “Sometimes we watch TV and she rubs lotion into my hands for two hours. Sometimes I make her a grilled cheese after I help her bleach her moustache. Then we go to sleep and sometimes it’s in the same room and other times it’s in separate rooms.” 

“That’s,” Eddie says. “It sounds nice.” 

“It is nice,” Ben says. He reels his line in slowly even though his hook is empty. “Why?” 

“Isn’t it funny,” Eddie says, but he doesn’t know how to continue. What’s funny? That they all found each other and they’re okay and they’re pairing off like some sort of reverse fucking Noah’s Ark? They survived and now they can. 

But Ben says, “Yeah. It is.” 

Eddie gives him a quick hug and heads back to the house to get his car keys so he can go home. Right after he turns around, he feels a sharp pain in his ass. 

“Don’t move!” Ben cries out. 

Eddie looks over his shoulder and down to where the pain is radiating. The fish hook goes through his pants and all the way into his ass cheek. When he moves, he feels it tugging at his flesh and it makes him sick. Ben cackles and gets his phone out rather than rush to Eddie’s aid.

“What are you doing?” Eddie shrieks. “Get this thing out of me!” 

“Taking a picture,” Ben says, snapping more than one before finally unhooking Eddie and releasing him. Eddie rubs at the sore spot on his ass, hoping he doesn’t bleed weirdly through his pants. 

Ben sends the picture of Eddie caught on his line with the caption “CATCH OF THE DAY!!!” 

Richie sends one of the gifs of himself, the one where his eyes are rolling back into his head as if possessed, captioned with the words “I’M CUMMING, FATHER”. 

~*~ 

Nobody at work says anything to him about his ear piercing, but he can feel them thinking about it. He should probably take it out. It doesn’t suit him, the way Ben says it does, not in the different contexts he has to live in away from the people who care about him the most. Here he’s just a little guy in a suit with nobody to look at him like he’s something delicious to eat because he let Bev mutilate him on a sexy whim. 

Eddie has a stack of mail in his bag from when he shoved it in there and forgot to open it once he got home. In the stack is a postcard Richie has sent him. The postcard is a painting of a naked woman holding a sword with a man’s severed head next to her. Eddie isn’t sure which painting it is and Richie has placed the stamp over the title. He’s written on the other side: 

_Why is this you_

_I am eating spaghetti_

_Wish you were here_

_Have a great summer_

_Love, Richie_

Eddie doesn’t have a lot of things on his desk. The less his colleagues know about him, the better, and things invite conversation. He should take the postcard home and hang it on his fridge. He should put the postcard under his pillow and pray for dreams of Richie every night. Instead, he digs around in his desk drawer for a push pin to put it on the corkboard next to him, message side out so he can read it whenever he wants. 

“Ow, fuck!” Eddie says, removing his hand quickly like he’s been bitten by a snake. A tack is pushed through his thumb, just the first few layers of skin, not deep enough to draw blood. He glares at it and pulls it out. He throws that one in the garbage and fishes out another that doesn’t try to kill him. 

~*~

“Hey, I’m outside your apartment,” Richie says. 

“You are?” Eddie asks. He puts the phone on speaker and swaps two boiling pots on top of the stove. One of the burners is more powerful than the other and he’s had to learn to live with it. 

“Yeah, flight landed about an hour ago and I said driver, take me to my Eddie,” Richie says. “And I impulse bought three watermelons at a fruit market and I carried them in my arms down two city blocks.” 

Eddie thinks, god I wish I were three watermelons. 

When Eddie answers his door, Richie only has two watermelons. 

“I dropped one,” Richie says, making a guilty face. He quickly makes himself at home, sliding his shoes off by the door and dumping his backpack on the couch. Eddie hadn’t been expecting him, but he’s giddy with the surprise of Richie’s presence. It’s like Richie belongs here. 

“What’re you doing here?” Eddie asks almost as just a formality. 

“I thought I’d pop in before tomorrow and see you,” Richie says. “Is it okay?” 

“Of course,” Eddie says, making room on the kitchen counter for Richie’s watermelons. Once Richie’s arms are free, Eddie hugs him, breathing in the sweet summery sweat on his neck. 

“Hi,” Richie says, his voice lilting like Eddie is the surprise. “I’m sweaty.” 

“Sweatiest man in show biz,” Eddie says. “Do you even know how to treat a watermelon or are you gonna just hit it with a sledgehammer?” 

“Oh, baby, do I know how to treat a watermelon,” Richie says. He rolls one of the watermelons to rest in front of him on the counter and slaps it like the roof of a car. “I learned from the best.” 

“Oh yeah, who’s that?” Eddie asks. He leans back against the counter and for some reason feels like he’s sending an invitation. He wants Richie to stand between his legs, press their hips together. Richie doesn’t seem to notice. 

“My good friend Guy,” Richie says. 

“Friendguy? Like a guy friend?” Eddie says, his blood running cold. 

“No, Guy Fieri,” Richie says. He says it with an accent - _fietti_. 

“Why are you saying it like that?” Eddie shrieks. “Richie, you’re not Italian. That’s so fucking annoying.” 

“That’s how he says it!” Richie says.

“The man on TV who eats garbage and wears ugly shirts and sunglasses on the back of his head is your good friend,” Eddie says. 

“You could be describing me,” Richie says. “He’s actually very nice. He helped me through a lot.” 

“Like what?” Eddie says. “He teach you how to eat a meatball sub?” 

Richie explains that he was invited to be a guest judge on an unfortunately timed sausage-themed episode of _Guy’s Grocery Games_ during a dark period where Richie was drinking very heavily and feeling fragile and insignificant. He kept making puns and jokes that were too hot for TV, which only made him feel worse because it meant everyone had to stay longer and do more work around him. Guy took him aside and instead of getting mad or worse, having him marched off set, he asked Richie one of the most profound questions he’d ever been asked in his life. 

“He said,” Richie recounts, getting a little choked up at the memory. “He said - hey man, is everything OK?” 

“That’s it?” Eddie says. 

“Not a lot of people were asking me if I was OK at the time,” Richie says plainly. 

“Oh, yeah, no,” Eddie says, feeling bad about making fun now. 

“Anyway, he let me cry in front of him for like an hour that day,” Richie says. “And I think I came out to him?” 

“You haven’t even come out to me,” Eddie says. “Maybe you’re in love with Guy.” 

“Well, Eds, he’s just not the guy for me,” Richie says. “But I have been to his house. That’s where he taught me everything I know.”

“About cutting a watermelon,” Eddie says. “You just show up at everyone’s houses with a watermelon.” 

“And I’ve been on his show like five times,” Richie says. “I was a guest chef, man. I fucking wiped the floor with Bobby Flay. Now will you fetch me a knife?” 

“Top drawer on your left,” Eddie says instead of getting it for him, just to watch Richie in his kitchen. 

Richie grips the handle of the knife confidently, sliding it into the center of watermelon in one fluid motion. He doesn’t even pause once to let the melon adjust to the intrusion, just buries it to the hilt without stopping. 

Then, without warning, he pulls the knife almost all the way out, leaving just the tip in, teasing. Staring heavy-lidded into Eddie’s eyes, he thrusts the knife back in all the way, using all the brute force in his body to split the watermelon in two. The halves separate, dripping sticky juice on the counter. 

“Um, yeah,” Eddie gulps. 

“Yeah?” Richie says, sounding cocky. He lifts his wrist up where some of the juice has spilled and licks it off. Eddie shudders and squeezes his thighs together. 

Richie makes quick work of dicing the fruit into perfect little one inch cubes. Eddie watches raptly, the sharpness of the knife in Richie’s capable hands made less dangerous by how skilled he is at using it, how careful he is. 

Eddie nearly forgets he has pots of water boiling on the stove. They start to bubble over as Richie begins his work taking apart the other watermelon. Sliding behind Richie, pressing his body closer than is necessary, he turns off the stove. 

The knife skewers smoothly into the second melon but gets stuck when Richie tries to pull out. He overestimates the strength he needs to yank it and his arm flings out. Eddie, too slow moving out from behind Richie, gets struck in the chest. 

They both gasp at the same time. Richie turns around and his eyes are so wide behind his glasses it looks like they’re painted on the lenses. His free, non-stabbing hand covers his mouth in shock. Eddie has not gone from being so bizarrely turned on to stabbed since he was impaled by a sewer clown. 

“You fucking,” Eddie says, almost unable to believe it, but Richie is still holding the knife and it’s still stabbing him.

“I fucking stabbed you,” Richie says through his fingers. He gingerly removes the knife from Eddie’s skin and throws it down onto the floor. 

“You fucking stabbed me,” Eddie says, voice in complete hysterics. “You stabbed me!” 

“Okay, I stabbed you, we get it,” Richie says, rolling his eyes. “It didn’t even go all the way in.” 

“I’m bleeding,” Eddie says, watching as a small patch of bright red seeps through the fabric of his t-shirt. “I’m fucking bleeding.” 

Richie hesitates for a moment, poised like he’s about to run away or throw up or both. Then he bends down and scoops Eddie up into his arms. 

“Richie, what the fuck,” Eddie laughs. 

“That’s what you said last time,” Richie says. He runs around the kitchen, Eddie gripped tight in his arms, his eyes playing frantic and wild like he doesn’t know which way to go. Finally he takes a turn and finds Eddie’s bathroom. He sets Eddie down on the bathroom counter. 

“All right, let me see,” Richie says. 

He reaches for the hem of Eddie’s shirt and starts pulling it up like it’s nothing. Eddie pushes his hands away, so Richie pauses, only holding onto the fabric but not lifting it anywhere. His fingers brush against the skin on Eddie’s stomach and Eddie feels his pulse all the way from his fresh stab wound to his fingertips.

“Richie,” Eddie says, looking down at where Richie’s hands are asking for permission. “Do you ever feel like maybe the universe is trying to finish the job?” 

“Don’t say that,” Richie says. “I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t let the universe make me do that.” 

Richie puts his fingers under Eddie’s shirt and lifts it up slowly, his fingertips dragging along Eddie’s ribs, the scar on his chest, and settling on his collarbone, the shirt rucked up into his armpits. 

“How bad is it?” Eddie says. 

“Just a scratch,” Richie says. He lays his palm over Eddie’s chest almost posessively and holds it there like he’s trying to keep a flame from going out. Eddie tells him where the bandages are and Richie patches him up, pulls his shirt down again. 

When Richie goes to pull away, Eddie stops him by holding one of Richie’s hands between both of his own. It doesn’t have the same effect as Richie doing the same to him, his big hand spilling out of the edges of Eddie’s smaller hands, like a sandwich with too much meat in it. Richie allows himself to be drawn in close, and Eddie makes room for him, his knees spreading from his position on the counter. A tremor runs through Eddie’s entire body at how near they are, the heat of Richie against him. 

“Thank you,” Eddie says. 

“For what?” Richie laughs quietly. His eyelashes brush the top of his cheeks as he looks down at their joined hands. “Stabbing you?” 

“Rich,” Eddie says, dropping Richie’s hand entirely. He wants Richie’s fingers on his skin again, Richie undressing him. Richie inhales sharply through his almond and kidney bean shaped nostrils when Eddie runs his fingers over the curve of Richie’s neck. Then Eddie leans forward and brings their mouths together easily.

Richie’s lips part as if he’s surprised, and maybe he is, but Eddie isn’t. He presses more insistently, the tip of his tongue pressing lightly at Richie’s bottom lip, further still, until their tongues meeting, soft and slick and perfect. Richie wrenches away quickly, trembling when they part, his chest heaving disproportionately to what they’ve done. 

“Eddie, I can’t,” Richie says, voice shaky and obliterated. 

“I love you, too,” Eddie says. “I know I said it was weird, when you said it before, but that was like a million years ago. You saved my life and you care about me as a person and you’re generous and thoughtful and you know me better than anyone now and you still want to talk to me and your face is handsome and your jugs are bigger than mine and I want to kiss your head clean off your body.” 

Richie stares at him during this speech, his two front teeth sinking into his lower lip as he tries not to laugh through it. 

“Okay, fuck,” Richie says. “You know I love you to death. Do I have to list off why? You and your good boy hair and your little hands and your muppet face.” 

“Shut up,” Eddie says, gripping the back of Richie’s neck for dear life. “If you don’t shut the fuck up.” 

They kiss again, surging against each other. The drag of Richie’s tongue against Eddie’s and the soft noises Richie makes, like an ache being relieved, are worth everything he’s ever been through. 

~*~

“You know, Eds,” Richie says later, naked in Eddie’s bed. Eddie is worked up beyond every human limit and Richie is close behind. He has spent the better part of an hour kissing Eddie’s neck, his chest, sucking his earlobe between his teeth and playing with the earring there until Eddie shivers too hard and pushes him off. 

“Richie,” Eddie gasps now, as Richie works a hand between his legs. 

“Fucking is a lot like - “ 

“If you fucking say that fucking me is like me being fucking stabbed, Richie, I swear to god, I will snap your dick off inside me, shit it out and flush it,” Eddie says. 

“Well, I won’t say it then,” Richie says. “Wouldn’t want to embarrass myself.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yes I am on twitter @boners


End file.
